


on g&t (but primarily g)

by Riathel



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Poetry, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-29 23:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riathel/pseuds/Riathel
Summary: it’s him, you tell yourself.(the drink burns your throatwith more certainty than that.)--The Doctor dwells on dark thoughts regarding the change in his relationship with the Master, given the latter has, very unreasonably, died and his consciousness been uploaded into an android body.A poem about the most obvious and popular Doctor Who media in the world: Scream of the Shalka. This may be slightly esoteric to read without context.





	on g&t (but primarily g)

**on g&t (but primarily g)**

it’s him, you tell yourself. 

(the drink burns your throat  
with more certainty than that.)

it’s him, you insist,  
you are frozen in contemplation of a darkened bedroom and  
the familiar skin of a back.  
familiar because you built it,  
you designed every freckle, every mark, 

(you swallow. it settles in your stomach. heavy. heavy. it’s a light drink, but when it hits your empty stomach it rests like chains.)

it’s him.  
or rather, you built it exactly like him,  
but it’s not him,  
not really. 

(he turns to you and in the dim light you can see how well you crafted that eyebrow, how neatly it raises, maybe the one, perfect thing you captured.)

you can joke about old times but  
you see the way the implanted memories have the clarity of a computer as he accesses them,  
and nobody but you would be able to tell the difference. 

(he says your name quietly.  
you swallow another mouthful of drink.) 

but you know,  
you know that thin smile isn’t quite accurate,   
even if you’re the only one that it matters to 

(he says your name, louder,  
god, you are a coward,  
you want anything but this) 

and it matters.  
it matters so, so much,  
a constant awareness of wrongness.  
if he’s too nice to you, you wonder if…  
if what? if you altered his program on a night when you got so blackout drunk 

(doctor, he says instead,  
it sounds like a plea  
and you feel heavy and dizzy) 

because you were trying to ignore the way that when you touch,  
skin to skin,  
his fingers stroking  
yours curling  
when it should be two into one– 

(the invitation drips from him,  
“come to bed,” he says softly, and then,  
like a switch,  
like you designed his systems,  
which you did,  
you won’t ever forget that,  
he grinds out:  
“surely your self-indulgent sulking  
can be post_poned_?”  
you swallow the rest of  
your drink  
and think about dying.)

you can feel the TARDIS echoing underneath what should just be him, propping up this absurd facsimile of someone you have  
hated 

and 

adored.

(“I’m not tired,” you lie,  
you want him to laugh, maybe that will prove decisively if you have become a tyrant,  
and he...)

drinking seems to be the best way to numb how much it hurts.  
you think you wouldn’t have changed him, 

(and he doesn’t laugh.  
he crosses his arms  
and his mouth tightens in an unfamiliar way  
and his unfamiliar voice says,  
“you are the worst liar.”  
he is right.  
another perfect recreation.  
he was always right about you,  
especially now that he’s dead  
and you built his ghost  
because you can’t live without being haunted by it everyday.) 

but you can’t know, really, not for sure, can never be certain,  
and the thought is almost revolting enough to convince you to never drink again 

(except for tonight, when you will, and tomorrow, and the day after  
and he will watch you and say  
nothing  
and what will he think?  
you do not know.  
he is not there.  
you are weeping at an empty grave.)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at riathel.tumblr.com.


End file.
